


There's More To Living (Than Being Alive)

by theandrogynousdragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Tower, Blood and Gore, Bruce becomes Team Dad, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Found Family, Gen, Grave Robbers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Steve Rogers, I researched when chocolate chip cookies were invented for this, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Identity, Jewish Sarah Rogers, Jewish Steve Rogers, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Lobotomy, Minor Original Character(s), Nightmares, Not Tony Stark Friendly, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Propaganda, Sort Of, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers is younger than canon, Steve's birthday is not July 4th, Survivor Guilt, Swearing, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Tony Stark is an Asshole, Tony Stark mocks people's trauma, Touch-Starved, Trauma, is it grave robbing if you're returning a person's body to their religious community?, lots of tea drinking, so many issues, the author hates Tony Stark, the twenties and thirties were terrible for mental health issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26496088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theandrogynousdragon/pseuds/theandrogynousdragon
Summary: Steve is trying to adjust to the future. Steve is also twenty-four. Steve is... not okay, but he's good at pretending.Good thing his new teammates are better at realizing when someone's pretending.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, I'll tag ships later I haven't decided, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 54
Kudos: 231
Collections: Avengers Fix





	1. A Little Color On A Greyscale

* * *

* * *

He crashes into the nearest available bed after the battle with aliens from _outer space, oy **vey** ,_ and dreams. Water and ice and his lungs are _burning_ he can't _breathe_ and his mother whispers _sh'ma Yisrael, Adonai Elohenu_ in her thick Belfast accent as the world spins around him. Bucky grins at him in a bombed-out bar, wearing his dress uniform, hat at a jaunty angle, skin transparent. Peggy fires a gun at Steve and the bullet makes a gaping hole in Howard's skull, messing up his perfectly coiffed hair. Howard turns to ask him if the shield works and all Steve can do is stare at the blood dripping down the man's smiling face. Dum-Dum laughs at a joke Gabe tells him, the front of his shirt a mess of red gore and shining white bone. A flashbulb goes off in Steve's face and he tries to cry out but ice pours out of his mouth, choking him as the crowd laughs at his rigor mortis smile.

He wakes up screaming, scrambling and half-falling off the bed in a tangle of limbs and sweaty sheets. He picks himself up with shaking limbs, gooseflesh spreading over his skin. Jarvis's voice erupts from the ceiling, “Captain Rogers? Do you require assistance?”

Steve gasps, “nuh, no, m'okay, Ed, thanks,” stumbling over to the door and wrenching it open. The corridor is awash in blues and purples with all the lights off. Steve doesn't bother turning them on. He's not really sure where he's going, just _away_. He pads into the kitchen and stops awkwardly, hesitating in the doorway (everything's too open, it's not defensible). Dr Banner is sitting at the counter blearily regarding a mug of mint tea like it holds the answers to the universe. For all Steve knows, it very well might. (The quiet doc's skin glows faintly with that muted swirling yellow-orange-green-red everyone has after the serum. Thor's skin is a brighter yellow-white, but Steve figures alien biology might have something to do with that.)

Banner glances up as Steve turns to go, calling out to him, “couldn't sleep?”

“I, uh, yeah. I can... go, though. Don't wanna bother you,” Steve mumbles, fidgeting with his shirt hem and hoping it'll hide his shaking hands.

“It's okay. I could use the company, to be honest.” Banner smiles at him encouragingly. “Do you want some tea? Kettle's still warm, I could make you some.”

“I'd like that, actually. Thanks, doc.”

“You can call me Bruce, you know. What kind do you want?”

Steve doesn't know much about modern (future) tea. “Is there lemon?”

“Yeah, here.” Bruce pulls a box out of a cupboard and plops a little paper bag into a mug. The kettle is electric, which, honestly, Steve thinks he shouldn't be surprised by, considering the icebox has a _touchscreen_ on it. “Do you want to talk about what's keeping you up?”

Steve grimaces, Bucky's transparent face grinning at him in his mind's eye. He thinks about Bucky's uncle Micah, who came home from the Great War but left his sanity in Europe. Micah who was a terrible cheat at cards and got hauled away by hospital orderlies when Steve was eight years old. Micah who loved tossing all the kids into the air and screamed at fireworks. Micah who disappeared. Micah who probably died alone in some asylum with no minyan to recite the Sh'ma with him, no family at his side. “Not really, do- Bruce.”

Bruce nods, handing him the steaming mug. “Fair enough. Know what's keeping me up?”

“What?”

“Microwaves.” 

“Huh?”

Bruce launches into a tirade about how microwave radiation works, which somehow ends in being able to microwave _ants_ and not hurt them? Steve's not entirely sure what Bruce is talking about, but at least his hands have stopped shaking finally. He feels a little guilty for not reciprocating, but he also doesn't want to have a surgeon stab him in the eye with an ice pick. Steve latches onto one of the other things that bothered him. “There's this air freshener in my room. Smells like apples. And it reminded me of Ma's apple cake, and I just... couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about it.” Bruce pokes around in the cupboards some more, pulling out flour and cinnamon and mixing bowls, grabbing butter from the icebox.

“We've got all the ingredients. We could make one? If you want.”

* * *

Barton wanders in ten minutes after they've put the cake in the oven, following his nose. “Hey. What smells good?” he yawns, his voice louder than normal. He's not wearing his aids, so Steve waves and carefully does the French signs for “cake” and “apple”. (Dernier taught the other Howlies the basics so they'd be able to talk to his wife when they visited. _When_. Not _if_. He'd been stubbornly optimistic like that.) Clint perks up, and they spend the next half hour or so signing to each other and teaching Bruce dirty words pretending they're the signs for regular stuff like “jacket” or “baseball”. Romanoff shows up to make coffee and hand Clint his little purple-blue hearing aids, and swiftly volunteers to taste-test the cake. She tells them it's terrible, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. 

Clint insists on building a blanket nest on the sofa, “cake tastes better that way!” and Natasha makes hot cocoa. Bruce puts a documentary on (it's about penguins, and Steve thinks he'd actually like it if he could pay attention.) and they all sit down together.

* * *

Dawn creeps in through the eastern windows hours later, running rosy fingers over the sleeping Gordian knot of heroes. Natasha is sprawled over Clint's back, her head pillowed on the archer's shoulder. Clint hangs half off the sofa, one arm flung over Steve's legs. Bruce is mostly sitting up still, and stirs as the light hits his eyes. Steve is tucked into the back corner of the couch, curled up small as he can get, one hand in Natasha's hair, the other a vice grip on Bruce's ankle. “Hey, JARVIS?” Bruce whispers, tugging one of the blankets over Steve's big shoulders. “Can you pull the blinds down, please?” The sunlight dims slowly as blackout curtains slide over the glass. “Thanks.” 

* * *

* * *


	2. This Is Who We Are (A Product of War)

* * *

* * *

Steve laughs at Clint's antics, turning to his right only to find an empty space where his best friend would be. Bucky would have loved the future, science enthusiast that he is. ... _was_. “You okay, Cap?” Clint asks, unfolding from the pretzel he's contorted himself into and standing up.

Steve fixes on his best Captain Showreel smile. “I'm fine. Just tired, is all.”

Clint leans in, eyes intense. “Y'know, it's okay if you're not okay, right? What with,” he gestures awkwardly, “everything.” _Micah hadn't been okay, and look where that got him._

“No, I'm alright, _really_. Gonna head to bed soon anyway.”

Steve tosses and turns on the mattress for an hour before getting up and dragging all the sheets and pillows onto the floor. He lays down. It's almost right, but... too open. Steve hauls the bed-frame closer to the window and flips it on it's side, arranging the covers in the space between the wall and the bed. He sleeps without dreaming but still wakes up feeling like his bones are flooded with ice. He wonders if it'll ever go away, that chill.

* * *

He throws himself into the clean-up effort with the same determination that's carried him through his entire life. Only this time there's no Ma to take the broom out of his hands and tell him to “get some bloody rest, Stíofán”, no Howlies to watch his six, no Bucky to curl up behind him when he bunks down for the night and reassure him that he's safe when he wakes up choking on blood that isn't there.

Steve just... drifts, confused and exhausted and desperately, painfully homesick. He wonders if they'd think he's lost it if he asks SHIELD to put him back in the ice, permanently.

He tracks down Micah Barnes's death certificate, and heads over to a grave outside a mental institution in Maine that's long since been closed down. The headstone is overgrown with weeds and cracked down the middle. _M. J. Barnes_ , it reads. _1894-1952. John 8:32._ Steve wants to rip the damn stone out of the ground. It's just _wrong_. It feels like a desecration.

* * *

Steve shows back up at the Tower after being gone for three days, a look on his face like he's spoiling for a fight. He also looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Natasha's worried about him. Just adjusting to living in America after the KGB had been a shock, and she can't imagine what he's going through. He bounds up to her, grinning feverishly. “I need you to help me move a body,” he announces, blue eyes lined in grey skin.

His request throws her for a second, but she recovers quickly. “Sure, I'm free this weekend.”

“Bring a shovel.”

He's walking away again before she can ask him what the _hell_ is going on. She really hopes he hasn't killed anyone noticeable.

He takes her to the cemetery behind an abandoned hospital in Maine, and starts unearthing a forgotten grave. The name on the headstone is Barnes.

* * *

They drive back to New York, to the Beth Olam Cemetery, where a group of old men and women are gathered before the doors. Natasha feels out of place as they carefully take the fragile remains inside and wash them, wrapping them in a long white cloth, a striped head cover draped over the skull.

The group slowly walks back outside to an empty grave and begins chanting in a musical language. The bones are interred with a solemn reverence, and Steve helps the others shovel the dirt over the bones. Steve takes a small rock out of his pocket and places it where the headstone would go.

* * *

It's not until they're back in the car and on their way to the Tower that Natasha speaks up. “Should I have brought flowers or something?” Steve shakes his head.

“Never bring flowers to a Jewish funeral. It's disrespectful. Flowers are for celebrations.”

She nods, “good to know. Didn't know Barnes's family was Jewish. The history books all say you were both Protestants.”

He looks offended, and a little incredulous. “We're both Jewish, from Jewish families. I knew the brass was upset at the serum only working on a poor Irish Jew, but I didn't know they went so far as to erase my and Buck's family history.”

“You're Irish?”

“Oh, that _fucking_ son of a—”

* * *

Steve hides in his room for the better part of the next week. Nat does some research and finds out it's part of something called shiva. She sits with him when she can. She tries to ignore how bare the room is, how the bed's been flipped onto it's side. He curls up beside her most days, his head in her lap, and tells her about Micah James Barnes. “Micah had red hair like yours,” Steve says, “which was rare for a Barnes. He loved listening to all those radio shows about alien invasions, men on Mars, all that. Was an awful cheat at poker, too. He had the world's angriest damn cat, I swear that thing was _born_ spitting mad.” He laughs, a couple tears pricking at his eyes. “Named it _Gelibte_ , thought he was funny.” Steve goes quiet, glancing at her. “He, um, he had... he was shell-shocked. Buck's gran said he might'a come home from the war, but he never really _came home,_ not all the way. Micah was taken away by some hospital when I was eight. No one would tell us where he was or what happened to him. Took me a while to track down his death certificate,” he mutters.

Nat drags her fingers through his hair and Steve whines, leaning into her hand. “They call it post-traumatic stress, now. And mental institutions don't work that way anymore. We've got pretty good mental health programs.” She doesn't tell him he desperately needs a therapist. One thing at a time, Natalia, _moy ryzhiy kotenok_.

* * *

* * *


	3. Covered In Our Noble Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for description of dissociative episodes and a mild reference to animal harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs my grubby little author hands all over the italics button* someone should probably take this away from me but oh well. and the hyphen button. and the uppercase script button.

* * *

* * *

He wakes up choking, gasping for air like he's drowning for the fourth time. He wakes up choking, and the door bursts open. Steve has a gun in hand and gets off two shots that _thunk_ into the corridor wall before he even realizes what he's doing. It takes him a long thirty seconds for his still jumped-up brain to coalesce white-blue-glow-ozone-smell-blond-hair-broken- _fucking_ -door-holy-shit- _and_ -half-the-damn-wall into Thor-is-standing-in-front-of-me. Well, Thor is actually _crouching_ in front of him, his hands out like he wants to touch but is unsure if that's the right move, while also scanning the room for potential hostiles. “Are you alright, Shield-Brother? I heard your distress from the hall and was alarmed.” Steve's face turns crimson. _Bucky used to say he was “a tomato with straw glued on one end” when that happened. ...It happened a lot._

“I- I'm, yeah, m'fine, just... bad dream.”

Thor's gaze turns sharp, calculating. For all Thor seems happy to play at being a dumb pile of muscles, he's whip-smart. Kinda has to be, being a prince and all. “I do not know what it is called here, but my people call it _stríð hugans_ , the war of one's mind. People sing songs of the glories of war, of the _chase_ , but they never sing of what comes after.” Thor sits next to him with a heavy _thump_ that Steve can feel in his damn teeth. “That is always the difficult part. Not the killing, no. That is... frighteningly easy. But the after,” Thor shakes his head, “ah, that is agony.”

And just like that, _thousand year old alien_ becomes _fellow soldier_. “I, uh, never really thought about... never thought I'd get an after, y'know? Middle of a war like that, that was the kind of thinking that got you killed. I never thought I'd make it to twenty-five, either, but jury's still out on that one.”

A muffled squawk issues from above them and Clint _what the actual, entire_ _ **fuck**_ Barton pops out of the vents like a particularly nosy rodent. “YOU'RE TWENTY-FIVE?” he screeches, eyes huge, like Steve's age is somehow an affront to the entire _universe_ and _God_ and, Holiest of Holies, _**street tacos**_.

“Twenty-four, actually, why?” Steve says slowly, part of his brain still trying to figure _how_ in the _good_ _goddamn_ Barton fit in the fucking vent, what the _hell_?

Barton makes a noise like a mouse being stabbed with a fork (in Dugan's defense, they'd ran out of supplies two days before, but he didn't need to stab the poor little bastard while it was still alive.) and falls out of the vent, spread-eagling on the floor, still goggling at Steve like he grew a second head or something. “What?” Steve bites out, defensive.

“I ju- I- YOU!” Clint mutters, making the French sign for “child”.

That gets Steve bristling. “I am an adult, thank you!”

“Steven, I am _literally_ old enough to be your _dad_ , so that's not holding water right now.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Well, if I'd had a kid at seventeen, anyway. Jesus _Christmas_. Next you're gonna tell me your birthday isn't the fourth of July.”

“Uh, it... isn't?”

Clint suddenly gets the same cheerful grin on his face that Dernier got before something went boom. Steve twitches, his entire body quietly telegraphing _run like hell right now_ into his brain. Steve is not an idiot. Steve runs.

* * *

Steve wonders, very cautiously, if he should tell someone he's been losing time. There's holes in his memory, recent stuff, and he never had that before the ice. So far he's noticed that it's tied to certain things, recordings of swing music, the smell of paprika and basil and goat cheese all together, the taste of any kind of fruit liquor, but especially cherry schnapps. Most times, if he experiences one of those things, he'll have flashbacks and be shaking for half an hour. Sometimes, though. Sometimes, he'll catch a whiff of something, or hear a bit of jazz on the radio, and he **blinks** and then it's hours later and he's somewhere else. The worst one was when he tried watching some action movie called “Private Ryan”, and he woke up _three days later_ , on a _bus_ , at _midnight_ , in fucking _**Jersey** _.

He should probably tell someone. But, well, Micah haunts him, still. _Look what they did to my brain, ben Yosef,_ he crows in Steve's dreams, giggling drunkenly, one eye a bloodied mess. _Whaddya think they'll do to you, all their fancy whatsit's they got now? You gonna tell'em you're a meshugenah, huh, schlimazel Steven?_

Besides, he's come out of each... memory-hole okay, and he knows what everyone says about not-broken things and fixing them. _Yeah, but_ _you're_ _**already**_ _broken, boyo,_ Micah's ghost whispers in some corner of Steve's brain. He shoves it away, harshly. _Dammit, Uncle Mike, lemme get some peace for once, oy_ _ **gevalt**_ _._

* * *

And then the July Fourth Incident happens, and Steve's precarious house of cards comes crashing down around him.

* * *

Steve already told Clint and kind of Thor that his birthday wasn't the fourth of July. This does not mean that there isn't a cake and streamers in the kitchen.

“What? Like the cake's gonna know it's not your birthday? Besides, we had this planned for a while,” Clint says, grinning in a Private-Gabriel-Jones-is-definitely-not-planning-a-prank-on-those-Air-Corps-boys-no- _sir_ way now. 

And then there's... something... _dirt?_ thrown in his face and _artillery fire_ and he **blinks** and then he's in the infirmary with the team sans Stark and Thor camped out on the narrow hospital beds around him. Steve stirs, making an effort to sit up, and the others stir with him. He thinks, hysterically, about mind readers and computer chips, for a second, before everyone's looking at him like they're expecting him to say something. “What... happened?” he croaks, and Bruce helpfully passes him a paper water cup with a little straw.

“We were kinda hoping you could tell us that,” Bruce says mildly. “Tony threw confetti in your face and you just... checked out.”

Steve feels like he's been punched in the chest. They _know_ , now. And he's- they're gonna- fucking doctors- _he doesn't want to end up like Uncle Mike, please g-d_ . He doesn't even notice the tears streaking down his face until Natasha vaults over Clint's bed to hold his huge hand in both her tiny ones. Clint reaches over to grab onto his shoulder, smiling encouragingly, like Dugan used to before Steve told him some absolutely bonkers plan he'd just thought up. “I,” Steve swallows past the lump in his throat, “I heard- there was artillery. I _heard it_ , I _know_ I did.”

Bruce looks... unshakably kind, and his soft brown eyes get softer, and Steve _**hates** _ it, just then. “Steve, those were fireworks.”

Steve makes this... noise, like a kicked dog, and he hates himself a little. “Wha- how, how long was I... out?” he rasps.

“Almost a week,” Clint says quietly, still giving him that Dugan-smile that makes Steve almost want to punch it off his _fucking_ face, but he restrains himself. He knows he's not exactly being rational right now, and giving a friend a left hook is a quick way to lose that friend.

“That's, that's the longest, then,” Steve mumbles, tugging a loose thread on the sheet so he doesn't have to look anyone in the eye.

Bruce, predictably, goes directly into I Am A Doctor, You Should Listen To Me mode that Steve recognizes from his ma. “This has happened before?”

Steve nods, “couple'a times.”

“Steven,” Bruce says, in the exact tone his ma used right before she wound up into a good What The Hell Did You Think You Were Doing, Steven Grant Rogers special. Steve braces for impact. “And you weren't going to _tell_ anyone this?”

“I don't particularly want anyone sticking an ice pick in my brain, thanks,” he growls, tugging sharply and watching the unraveled thread bunch up an inch of fabric.

“Oh, sweet Iowan Jesus, Steve. _Steve_. Nobody does that anymore. It's massively frowned on, if not outright illegal,” Clint says, squeezing his shoulder. “Did nobody give you a, a packet, or something?”

“They stuck me in some kinda metal cabin thing for two weeks with personnel files on the Howlies. Does that count?”

Clint grin sharpens into Morita's I-am-going-to-murder-my-XO-with-a-rusty-spoon-for-this-bullshit. Bruce's eyes flicker green-brown-green-brown like they're sending SOS signals.

“Well, then. You are gonna get-” Clint starts, but Steve cuts him off.

“If you say assimilated, I am _going_ to deck you.”

“Educated, Steve. I was gonna say educated.” 

Education, apparently, starts with ice cream. A _lot_ of ice cream. And Clint wandering off to shout into his phone at someone. And it's... _good_. Really good. Steve lets himself think, surrounded by his new friends (Thor joined them for the ice cream, knuckles suspiciously bruised) for the first time since getting out of the ice, _oh. I could make a home here. I could... stay._

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the non english bits are as follows (I'll go back and do this for the other chapters too)  
> stríð hugans - war of the mind, Icelandic  
> ben Yosef - son of Joseph, Hebrew  
> meshugenah - crazy person, Yiddish  
> schlimazel - unlucky, Yiddish  
> oy gevalt - literally "oh violence", Yiddish, used as an expression of dismay or exasperation


	4. My Ghost, Where'd You Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of torture and dehumanization, and implied matricide.

* * *

* * *

It's head hurts. It doesn't remember the name of the man in front of it, but this is _acceptable mission parameters_ normal. It doesn't remember anything before the Chamber, before the Chair. This is _cognition error_ not quite true. It remembers two things: the Words, and the Numbers. It doesn't know where they came from, but it does know they are _report cognition error to handlers for maintenance_ important to whoever it was Before.

The handlers are disturbed, angry. Something must have happened. The man in front of it is arguing with one of the technicians—something about a mission, and whether Asset will be able to carry it out, from the sound of it. Asset passes time waiting for the argument to be over by repeatedly running the Numbers through it's head, followed by the Words.

57038

Shema isrel, adon-eye elo-new (there are more words, it knows, but they are always out of reach) The Words always make it's right arm twitch a little, but luckily the technicians and handlers have always assumed this a reflex, a muscle spasm caused by emergence from the Chamber.

* * *

The argument resolves, and Asset's mission is clear. Eliminate target: Rogers, Steven G., alias Captain America, threat level eight. Asset is to use any means at it's disposal, and return immediately upon mission completion. It has been granted three weeks to complete the mission, a rarity. Failure to eliminate target will result in an extended stay in the Crypt.

Asset hates the Crypt.

Rogers, Steven G., alias Captain America is as good as dead already.

* * *

 _Query_ : Steve?

 _Statement_ : No! Not without you!

_Cognition error. Irrelevant to mission parameters. Disregard._

* * *

Steve is officially benched from Avengers duty for the next few... however long it takes for him to “adjust to the current era” and “deal with his traumas”, whatever that means. He has a _psychiatrist_ assigned to him, even! And it's _entirely_ Bruce's fault! Well, okay, maybe he needs a _little_ help, but seriously? He feels like he's nine and getting grounded by his ma for whacking Thomas Wheeler with a brick again. (Thomas Wheeler had _deserved_ _it_ , dumping mud down Marta Andrysiak's new Sunday dress.)

He flops dejectedly onto the couch on the first day of his “vacation”, feeling useless, when Clint floats the idea of going to a few classes for the upcoming semester. “Give you something to do, at least,” he says, stacking another origami dog on a sleeping Natasha's shoulder.

Steve shakes his head, sighing, “I don't have the money for that, Clint.”

“What about your backpay?”

“What backpay?”

Clint looks like he wants to hit something. “I guess we're going to the bank, then, come on.”

* * *

 _Query_ : Did it hurt?

 _Statement_ : I'm following him.

 _Disregard_. 

* * *

Four million dollars. Steve has four _million_ dollars in the bank, and absolutely no idea what to do with it. He feels giddy as he signs up for the spring semester. College. He can go to _college_. Hell, he could _buy_ the damn college if he wanted, money like that.

He asks Bruce to help him with it, since the only higher education Steve's had was the scraps of twelfth grade he attended, in between getting sick and his ma dying, in 1939.

Bruce looks at him funny, and Steve sighs. “What is it?”

“The history books said you went to state university, but dropped it when the war broke out.”

“I'm beginning to seriously hate the author of those books.”

* * *

_Cognition error. Cognition error. Cogni-_

_Query_ : You're keeping the outfit, right?

 _Statement_ : Sometimes I think you like getting punched.

 _Statement_ : Don't do anything stupid until I get back.

 _Perform surveillance of target Rogers, Steven G., alias Captain America. Rogers, Steven G. is_ a goddamned punk. _Assessment irrelevant to mission parameters. Disregard. Override_ : assessment pretty fucking relevant.

* * *

 _Query_ : Is it permanent?

 _Statement_ : I thought you were smaller.

* * *

 _Statement_ : Don't do anything stupid

 _Statement_ : Don't do

 _Statement_ : Don't

* * *

_Initiate system recall?_

* * *

_Statement_ : It's my last night.

* * *

_Initiate system?_

* * *

_Statement_ : Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai elohenu, Adonai echad. Baruch sheim k'vod malchuto l'olam vaed.

* * *

_Initiate?_

_Statement_ :

 _Statement_ :

 _Statement_ :

* * *

 _Query, other_ : Yacob, ben sheli, what did they do to you? Where have you been?

**_Oh G-d, what have I done? Oh, G-d._ **

* * *

* * *


	5. I Miss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get Steve and Bucky confrontation!

* * *

* * *

AssetSergeantBarnesJamesBuchananYacobSoldat scowls at the man-that-is-not-Howard. “Your dad promised me a flying car,” he (he is a _he_ , not an _it_ , g-d fucking damn HYDRA) rasps, adjusting his hold on his rifle. “Where is it?” The man-that-is-not-Howard screams and slams the door in his face. This is annoying. AssetSergeantBarnesJamesBuchananYacobSoldat sighs and lopes off down the hall. Fine. He'll go get that other doctor to get him a flying car. Stark-Howard-extremely-fond-of-touching-Steve promised him one, and a flying car would certainly help the required surveillance of Rogers-Steven-Grant-Stevie-putz-Captain-America. (He's not actually sure why he's still doing the surveillance anymore. It just... feels familiar, somehow, so he'll stick to it.)

* * *

Attempting to find the other doctor is unsuccessful, but he does get seen. By the target of his current surveillance, no less. This is gonna go awful, he knows that already. _Oy vey, Yacob, look at the mess you've got yourself in now_.

* * *

Steve shuffles out of his room and immediately stumbles over a ghost. He blinks owlishly at Bucky, and thinks about what Bruce said about sleep deprivation causing hallucinations. Well, part of his brain thinks about that, anyway. The rest is swamped with _BuckyBuckyBucky oh-wow-how-are-you-here-you're-HERE-I-missed-so-damn-much_. Bucky is... Bucky is wearing his old clothes, down to that blue coat he was so fond of, prized scope-mounted M1941 Johnson in his hands. He's even got the same _haircut_. The only thing that's different is that he's wearing gloves. Even those are familiar, though, because they're the same hideous grey-brown-blue ones Monty knitted for everyone in the unit. He might as well have stepped out of a photograph. (Steve isn't entirely sure Bucky hasn't.)

“Hi, Stevie,” Bucky says, a cocky little smile curling his mouth. “Those new threads? Look nice, soare.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, like prayer, like drowning. “Bucky, oh g-d.” Then he is _hugging Bucky_ and everything except emergency services is very promptly shut off in his brain.

* * *

AssetSergeantBarnesJamesBuchananYacobSoldat does a cursory sweep of Rogers-Steven-Grant-Stevie-putz-Captain-America to assess physical health. He seems fine, if tired. He is wearing clothes that are not weapons-ready _at all_ , but suitable for sleeping in, a big grey sweater that somehow manages to make him look small and blue cotton pants that look soft, no socks or shoes. He has ink stains on his fingers and one on his right cheek, which points to falling asleep while writing, possibly at a desk. AssetSergeantBarnesJamesBuchananYacobSoldat is glad he exchanged his tactical gear for the clothes he stole from the museum (it's _his_ stuff, he has a right to take it _back_ , fuck it) and gave himself the same haircut he had in the old photos, as the getup definitely assists with personal recall, and has the added benefit of not scaring the absolute hell out of people. (A lot of people seemed to assume he was performing some unknown action called “cosplay” though, and had very earnestly tried to direct him to a “comicon” which was apparently in the area.) He doesn't know why he says those words to Rogers-Steven-Grant-Stevie-putz-Captain-America, but they feel like he's said them before. He doesn't know the name Rogers-Steven-Grant-Stevie-putz-Captain-America calls him either but it sounds right. Bucky. Bit odd, but not the worst nickname ever.

* * *

A child's voice, high and slightly nasal sounding. “Ya can't call me Bucky, Steve, Becca'll get confused!”

* * *

He doesn't remember anyone called Becca but that's okay. He'll figure it out.

* * *

“REBECCA!” a woman shouts with a heavy Eastern European accent. (Not Russian. Austrian, maybe?) “HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR YOUR MUDDY SHOES IN THE HOUSE, YOUNG LADY?”

A girl's voice, “ALRIGHT, MA!”

There's something... he can almost... braids, the girl'd had braids, and one was crooked because... because Stevie'd wanted to help but his hands had been shaking. She had brown hair. Curly. Big hazel eyes. The girl had been, what, twelve? No, _thirteen_ , he knows that. Her birthday had been... May, three days before this memory happened. He was wearing... a stiff, brown suit. Uniform? And she'd wanted... she wanted him to take her... dancing, but he... couldn't because... something about a science fair?

“Hey,” his own voice says, in the memory where he's wearing a uniform, a hat in his hands. “Hey, Becks, don't be sad. I'll take ya dancing, I promise. When I get back, I'll take ya to whatever dance hall you want, okay? I won't even scare off any boys who wanna go dancin' with ya, promise.”

Her little nose scrunched up. “You better not, Jamie.”

He gave her a snappy little salute. “Cross my heart.” He plunked the hat on her head, and she giggled. She tried to hand it back. “Nah, you keep that one, Becksy. They gave me another. Don't know why, but hey, you keep that one. For luck, yeah? So you know I'll come back, okay?”

“Okay, Jamie.”

* * *

“Bucky?” He blinks and Steve is standing in front of him. But that's not right, he's supposed to go pick Steve up from the theater soon, isn't he? “Buck, you okay?”

“I'm fine, Stevie. But what are you-” he remembers, suddenly, and shakes his head. “Never mind. I'm alright, really.”

“Well, if you're sure. But how... I thought... how are you here, Buck?”

“That's a long story, lyalke.”

“We got time.”

Bucky smiles and for once it doesn't feel foreign on his face. “Yeah, guess we do. Hey, d'you know if they still got dance halls around? I made a promise to someone and I wanna follow through on it.”

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soare - Romanian, sunshine   
> lyalke - Yiddish, doll


End file.
